enter bitching
by clairebare
Summary: jane seeks shelter.
1. Chapter 1

I barely have the blank document open when I hear it.

Someone fooling with the lock on the front door.

A second later, he's in.

He tosses the unbent paper clip onto the console in the foyer.

He lets the door slam behind him and drops the Whole Foods bags he's carrying right where he stands.

He leans back breathing hard.

From my perch on the sofa, I drink in the sight of his thick blond curls. It's been a long time.

His blue-green eyes seek out and locate the trashcan. He stuffs in the box of Pampers he has under his arm stomping it down with a sneaker-clad foot.

We make eye contact.

"Patrick, how the hell are you?" I inquire from my vantage point.

He rolls his eyes, "Don't ask."

He toes off the sneakers, unzips his khakis and lets them drop to his feet. He steps out of the pants and strips off his polo shirt. In seconds, his clothes join the diapers at the bottom of the trash.

I get to admire his boxer clad butt as he roots around in the closet and pulls out a blue shirt and a grey three-piece suit. He leans farther in emerging with a pair of battered brown shoes hooked on his long fingers and a grateful grin on his face.

"I think I'll take a bath," he says heading down the hall.

"The towels are in there," I say.

He pops his head back in the room.

"You're not going to feel the need to light a million candles around me and scatter rose petals, are you?"


	2. Chapter 2

1

He strolls back into the living room smelling like the acacia soap I keep for him.

The three piece suit. The jaunty walk. The eyes that see everything.

"Sorry for the comment about candles and rose petals," he says. "My life seems to be full of these canned domestic moments."

"It's okay. You've been marinating in estrogen for months." I get a smile out of him.

I continue, "It makes sense that you'd make certain assumptions about what to expect. But don't worry, I don't want you to cook me dinner or rub my feet."

His smile passes sunny on its way to incandescent.

I rise from the sofa. "That would be a terrible waste of Patrick Jane."

I follow him into the kitchen.

"Look what we have here." He deftly extracts the tin of Marco Polo tea from the pantry cabinet.

He continues to riffle through the shelves.

Not finding what he's looking for, he turns. "You want coffee, right?"

"I drink tea," I say.

"No coffee? Just think of the implications," he mutters.

"Yeah, no coffee breath," I say.

He snorts ruefully as he scoops tea into the china pot.

"I thought you loved Lisbon," I say.

"Not everybody's Lisbon," he replies.

2

Patrick Jane.

In New York City.

The opportunities for joy and fun and preferential treatment are unlimited.

Whoever came up with the bacon-wrapped hotdog must have never set foot in an A county.


	3. Chapter 3

1

The next few days are a blur of everything New York has to offer.

We go everywhere. See everything.

We eat.

The ramen at Momofuko. The ice cream cake at Parm. The melted epoisses at Acme. The bagels at Black Seed. The iles flottante at Le Coq Rico. The entire menu at Carbone.

We take in the Met Costume exhibit after closing. Free to stroll through the deserted galleries. All the guards smile at Jane as he saunters by.

In fact, all of Manhattan and much of Brooklyn smiles as Jane saunters by.

A shopping bag containing the sold-out-everywhere Gucci black loafer slides with the fur lining is messengered to my apartment.

"How did you know?" I ask as I slip an eager trotter into one.

Not looking up from the current New Yorker, "Hmm, woman with an average foot size and a pulse resists the trend but wakes up to her gnawing need a day too late." He turns a page and snorts at a cartoon, "Need I say more?"

2

How do you get last minute front row center seats to "Hamilton?"

I suspect showing up with Patrick Jane may have some bearing on the outcome. But he's not talking and I'm not asking.

Sometime during the second curtain call, I glance over at him.

His seat is empty.

I wait as the theatre empties out but no Patrick.

3

I rush home and open another blank document.

There's a faint sound outside the apartment.

I open the door in time to catch a weeping Jane as he pitches forward.

Why is he upset?

And why are the knees of his pants bloody?


	4. Chapter 4

I ease a distraught Patrick to the floor positioning his knees so they bleed off the rug.

I make a run to the bathroom for bandaids and peroxide.

I return to find him sprawled on the white sofa, eyes dry, knees perfect.

"Thanks for the rescue. The ones where I have to beg forgiveness are always multi-chapters," he mumbles, shaking the folds out of the throw and curling up under it.

"So you're not really sorry for how you've wronged and continue to wrong Teresa?" We exchange eye rolls.

"I have to do what they write me doing," he says, his droopy lids drooping lower. "But I don't have to mean it."

I slide a throw pillow under his curly head. "Must be exhausting."

"I can tell pretty much by the first sentence if I'm in for another ten thousand words of 'The Magnificent Green-eyed Saintly, Noble, Brilliant and Much-abused Special Agent."

He snaps his fingers as if he forgot. "Oh...and that mentalist guy who doesn't deserve her."

I tuck the throw under his feet. "In my stories, Lisbon feels lucky someone like you gives a flying fuck about her."

He smiles a sleepy smile. "Your work does have a gritty realism to it."

I laugh.

He closes his eyes and is instantly asleep.

I watch him for a minute then I head to the kitchen.

Maybe I'll peel him some grapes.


End file.
